


Disgraced

by rexluscus



Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Adolescent Sexuality, Consent Issues, Crossdressing, Domestic Violence, Dubious Consent, F/M, Gangbang, Homophobia, Humiliation, Id Fic, Jealousy, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Misogyny, Obsession, Pre-Canon, Shame, Sibling Incest, Underage Sex, Unrequited Love, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 07:43:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexluscus/pseuds/rexluscus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thor grows up and learns some uncomfortable stuff about sex, power, and shame. Or, if you prefer, a kinky id-fic in which Thor watches Loki have lots of sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disgraced

**Author's Note:**

> Written for wanton_avengers. Prompt: "Thor watches his brother grow up and have several partners through the years. And it _eats him._ "
> 
> Just to be clear: BIG CONSENT ISSUES in this story. Please scroll down to the notes at the end for a full spoilery explanation of what the tags aren't detailed enough to describe.

Thor doesn't even know what he's seeing at first. Loki and the head farrier's son, Ingi, are wrestling in the back of the stall, except that their trousers are off and they're not using any of the holds Tyr taught them. When they pause to catch their breath, Ingi lies on his back with Loki on all fours above him, which would be a perfect chance for Ingi to hook a leg over Loki's waist and flip him, but instead Ingi reaches between Loki's legs and—and that is absolutely an illegal move, but Loki doesn't protest. Instead, he does the same to Ingi. Thor watches as their hands move rhythmically between each other's legs, as they breathe as hard as if they were still fighting, their naked, muddy flanks heaving with the effort. 

Men and women are known to touch each other's private parts like this, he has heard, but what have Loki and Ingi to do with any of that? They are not even fully grown, and neither of them is a girl. Anyway, Thor is two hundred years old and his little brother a mere hundred and eighty, so Loki can't possibly know more about these things than Thor. Just last week, Loki had loudly expressed his indifference to marriage and girls and kissing—so clearly what Thor is watching him do can't be related to that. 

Loki now sits astride Ingi's bare thighs, and Thor can see that he's holding both their pricks in his hand, squeezing and jostling them together. Ingi, thoroughly pinned, has insinuated his hand as well, so that their fingers are tangled together around their swollen pink pricks and all that's visible are the glistening heads. At the sight of the clear fluid gathering at the tips of the ruddy bulbs, Thor's own prick gives a little twitch. He pictures his hand in that tangle of fingers—thinks of Loki's prick, hot and velvety-smooth against his sword-rough palm—and thinks of all the times he's seen it before, touched it even, in the bath or to help Loki piss, yet felt unmoved. Now he wants it. He wants to push Loki's tunic up higher to see the rest of his smooth little body, not strong and muscular like Thor's but pretty in its way. Neither of them are men yet, but they are on the verge, and grown men have a use for their pricks that Thor is only now beginning to fathom. He'd just always thought that use involved _women_.

Loki and Ingi are making pained sounds, hoarse weeping sounds, as they slide their pricks in the grooves of each other's hips. By now, Thor understands—well, doesn't _understand_ , exactly, but a part of him knows dimly what they know—that they're doing this for pleasure, a pleasure Thor feels too. He rubs his own prick through his trousers as if to ease an ache, but that just makes it ache more, a strange, sweet, itching ache he's felt at night sometimes, and in the bath. He gets it now. Why _Loki_ should have made this discovery first vexes him, nor can he conceive why his _brother's_ bare body should be the sight that brings these half-formed feelings and impressions to the surface, but for the moment, he doesn't care. He's too riveted by his brother's prick dribbling white fluid onto Ingi's belly as they both cry out, and too absorbed in grinding the heel of hand into his crotch until he soaks the front of his trousers in a joyous spasm. 

Immediately he sets about creeping off before his brother knows he's there—but he fears Loki knows anyway, since Thor has a notoriously heavy tread. For days, he waits for Loki to mention it, to use it as leverage if nothing else, but then, he realizes, what he saw gives _him_ leverage too. So neither of them can acknowledge the incident without risking destruction. Thor knows he would win the war that would result, since Loki is a well-known liar, but the casualties would be heavy. Besides, he cares little for getting Loki in trouble now. He'd much rather gain back the head start Loki stole from him, and prove that he is just as schooled in the use of his manhood as Loki will ever be. 

He does his best to forget the accident of Loki's role in his sexual awakening. Seeing another boy's rampant prick had merely reminded him of his own, he reasons—it matters not whose it was. He has seen Loki countless times in innocent nudity and never found anything special about the sight. 

 

Soon, Thor learns properly about sex—so fast, in fact, and in such detail, that he can't think back to a time when he _didn't_ know what those parts on men and women were for. In the hot, humid spring of his sexuality, he has girls by the dozens and even a few boys, though he learns early on that boys his age are rather meant to _be_ had, which his honor and position certainly won't allow. He lives in a fog of pleasure, happy and stupefied and honestly unsure why any creature would ever do anything but fuck unless they had to, and feeling all the while quite proud of himself. Until he discovers that Loki, his scrawny, socially awkward little brother who is twenty whole years younger, has not spent this time idly waiting for Thor to catch up. 

Thor stumbles on his first evidence of Loki's progress when hunting for food in the middle of the night. He turns a corner on his way to the kitchen and hears two voices, male and female, hushed and mingled with giggles. Then he turns another corner and sees Loki kneeling at the feet of a scullery maid, whose skirts are hiked up to her waist while Loki laps hungrily at her quim. 

Thor halts in his tracks, too startled to speak, and for once, Loki is in no state to notice him. His hearing is muffled by the girl's thighs, as well, and by the noise he's making between them. Thor stares in appalled fascination at an act he too has performed but never in such a way, never with the passionate freedom of a dog licking gravy from a plate. This is not a few gentle kisses on the lady's nether lips. No, Loki has her spread wide with his fingers as he devours her cunt, slurping noisily and flexing his jaw to reach deeper with his tongue. The girl has a handful of his inky hair in her fist and uses it to grind his face hard into her cunt, sometimes easing up to let him taste at his leisure and other times riding his chin with short, sharp thrusts. Thor wonders how he doesn't suffocate. The girl's bodice is open to display her large white breasts, and Thor watches slack-jawed as she pinches and squeezes them while Loki attends to business below.

Some part of Thor curls its lip at this indecorous display of exotic customs, but most of him is immediately, electrifyingly aroused—was so even before he quite realized who the man was whose face was buried between the maid's legs. The fact that it's Loki sends a second bolt of lust through him—which he chooses to interpret as mere desire to be in Loki's place. He still has trouble tearing his eyes away from the rapid motion of Loki's hand in his open trousers. Astounded, he watches the maid moan through a shuddering climax, at which point Loki scrambles to his feet, hooks a hand under the girl's knee and thrusts his cock into her slick quim with barely a pause.

Loki is slight of build but stronger than he looks, and his thrusts lift her up onto her toes. His trousers slip down to expose the tops of his buttocks as he pumps into her with an intensity of purpose and a sober diligence Thor never realized he possessed, his pale arse squeezing taut with each thrust, hypnotizing Thor with its rhythm. 

Their grunts and groans are ascending in pitch, and Loki is sucking on the girl's fat pink nipple when she lolls her head to the side and opens her eyes upon Thor, standing there as still as a colossus with his cheeks red and his trousers a-bulge.

Several things happen at once. First, the girl screams, a remarkably high, clear, blood-curdling scream that makes Thor stumble backward. Halfway through her scream, Loki spends himself, oblivious to her sudden efforts to disengage as he pants and thrusts through his climax. Once his frenzy has subsided enough for his limbs to soften, she shoves him roughly away, tugs down her skirts, and runs up the corridor, arms clasped over her magnificent breasts. Loki watches her go in mild surprise, then turns, puzzled, to see Thor standing there. Frozen by a guilty fear, Thor feels every infinitesimal division of the second it takes for Loki to look down at his hands clasped over his groin. Then Loki smiles a slow, delighted smile.

"I didn't want to interrupt you," Thor explains, angered by that knowing smile. "But the kitchen lies beyond and there's no other way to get there."

Loki has tucked himself back into his pants and now leans against the wall, sucking lazily on his fingers. He lifts an eyebrow. "Oh? Have your own scullery maid to meet, then?"

Thor scowls. "Brother," he says, confused and angry for reasons having nothing to do with embarrassment, "surely you know it's wrong for us to sport with servants. They couldn't refuse us even if they wanted to." He isn't quite sure why he's so incensed, so he resorts to schooling Loki on the rules of honor he's learned so well—the one aspect of sex he's sure Loki hasn't bothered with.

"I'm pretty sure she wanted that," says Loki with a bored shrug. "What—don't you know how to tell?"

"Loki," says Thor, letting go of sense and restraint, "you should not be _doing_ such things! I—I should tell Father on you!"

"Why should he care?"

"You remember what he said about bastard children. You could—you could start a civil war!"

Loki rolls his eyes. "I'm not going to father any children. So really, what's the harm?"

Thor thinks hard. "You're not even of age yet—that's the harm!"

Loki grins that deeply untrustworthy grin of his that shows both sets of his teeth. "Just think," he says—and Thor knows exactly what sort of remark he's readying on his bowstring—"you could have been doing this decades ago! Well, I'm sorry you were so late figuring it out."

Thor remembers Loki with the farrier's son, and swells with impotent rage. What does Loki need with all of these _other_ people, anyway? Why must he go to them when Thor loves him so?

Loki's grin fades as he notices the change in Thor's face. They fall silent as they stare at each other, frozen in place. Thor cannot bring himself to acknowledge the _thing_ that is in his mind, and yet he's sure Loki can see it there anyway—so monstrous and strange that even Loki doesn't have the courage to mock it. 

"Um," says Loki, speechless for once in his life.

Breaking their gaze, Thor pushes past him and stomps off toward the kitchen, blinking away the sting in his eyes.

 

For months, Loki and the scullery maid haunt Thor's early-morning dreams—the sort he wakes from with his prick erect, so that he can neither fall back to sleep nor banish it from his thoughts. One sight in particular won't give him peace: the curved pink bow of Loki's lips on the girl's round, white breast. Three times, he gives in and strokes himself while picturing Loki's mouth, trying to convince himself it's the plump tit he's interested in and not the wetness of his brother's tongue as it peeks out between his lips. The last time he does it, an image of those lips parting around the head of his prick slips into his mind, and the searing pleasure as he comes turns to horror the moment his climax begins to wane. He vows never to think about that night outside the kitchen after that.

But it doesn't matter—a door in his mind has opened that he can't push closed. He never thinks of the girl again, but Loki in the grips of passion burns brighter in his memory as the years pass—his lapping tongue, his full-throated moans, even that glimpse of his round little arse. Time spins those trifles into a veritable masturbatory mythology. And it doesn't let up when Loki comes of age. To everyone's surprise, Loki grows into a tall and fair young man—practically overnight after a long and awkward adolescence, from which no one but Frigga thought he would ever emerge. He looks nothing like Thor, of course, which just makes Thor's predicament worse, since it's so easy to imagine they aren't related, and this new Loki is so _different_ from the old one. For one thing, he's beautiful, with his clear pale skin and large eyes—a bit effete, perhaps, and not very strong, but the boys Thor likes have never been big strapping fellows like himself, anyway. They've always been more on the slender side, and darker, more like—well. He supposes that explains _that._

With the first flowering of Loki's manhood constantly before him, Thor's misery increases. He'll lop off his own hand before he ever touches Loki, he's sure of that, and yet like an invasive weed his desire grows more extravagant the longer he ignores it. At some point (he's not sure when) he gives up and accepts it as a shameful but ineradicable part of himself, like the marks of an incurable venereal disease. And because it can't be cured, he starts to resent Loki for doing things that make it harder to endure. Like taking lovers from among Thor's friends.

He's not sure when he notices that Loki and Fandral aren't just sparring together because they've been randomly paired. He realizes first that they keep away from the others, never offering to switch. From there, he pays attention to the way they fight—close, grappling tussles full of laughter and secret smiles. Not altogether serious, as combat training goes. Thor yells at both of them and stomps around the yard. When he orders them to change partners, he sees the guilty smirk Loki gives Fandral as they separate—and then he sees the smirk grow vicious as Loki turns it on him. _You've caught me,_ it says. _But I've caught you too._

At night, Thor lets their wrestling turn to lovemaking in his mind. Now that he has deemed his desires incurable, he's free to indulge them in his thoughts, and he pictures Loki wrestling Fandral to the ground, then opening his trousers and straddling Fandral's face. Thor has always had a healthy lust for Fandral too, like most of Asgard, and that slightly-more-acceptable desire dispels a bit of the shame he feels as he comes to thoughts of his brother's cock in Fandral's mouth. 

In the days ahead, he vows not to lie to himself, even if that means looking this ugly jealousy in the eye—but he doesn't think he _planned_ to peek through the slats in the armory door, to search out the sight of his brother and Fandral devouring each other's mouths as they thrust their hands into each other's trousers. And because he isn't lying to himself, he knows he didn't follow them there to interrupt them. He also knows, again if he's being honest, that Loki almost certainly knows he's watching. The sight of him is all the more poisonous for being so sweet. He can almost tell himself that Loki is doing him a kind of mercy by turning slightly toward the door as he strips his tunic off, giving Thor a perfect view of his strong, slender body. From where he's crouching, he can only see Loki's face and not Fandral's, so he's free to imagine that those sword-hilt-roughened hands on Loki's skin are his own. 

So much for not lying to himself.

Thor's throat is hot and his chest too tight as he presses his face to the wooden slats. If he is to live forever with this curse, then watching Loki in another's arms is as close to bliss as he'll ever get—and yet he'd rather drink molten metal from a forge than watch another have what he cannot. Moreover, Fandral is his _friend_ , with nothing but love for Thor and without the slightest notion that Thor has cast him as both rival and proxy in the drama of his perverse desires. Somehow Thor has no trouble violating Loki this way—he's bitter enough to consider it just recompense—but violating Fandral, that he regrets. 

Yet he cannot look away. He watches them kiss and stroke each other's dewy skin, then watches some more as Fandral kneels and tenderly sucks his prince's cock. Loki tips back his dark head to show Thor the flexed muscles of his throat, moaning his pleasure loud enough for Thor to hear, even (Thor fancies) opening his eyes a sliver to meet Thor's hidden gaze as he comes in Fandral's mouth. Thor will spend the next few days in town with his royalty concealed, fucking every willing dark-haired boy he can find, but nothing matches the orgasm he has in his hand that night as he remembers that glitter of acknowledgement he saw in Loki's half-closed eyes.

After that, convinced that Loki has given him tacit permission, he plots incessantly to catch him with Fandral again, this time perhaps under more leisurely circumstances, when half the yard won't wonder why Thor is spying through a hole in a door with his hand down his pants. And given his proven lack of subtlety, he figures that any success he has will be because Loki allows it. Thus he finds himself creeping to Fandral's chamber one evening after Loki and Fandral leave the great hall minutes apart—Fandral's chamber, not Loki's, because it has a large uncovered keyhole, and lies well outside the heavily travelled corridors. Thor hears them before the door is even within sight, moaning and laughing in turns, and as he kneels to look inside, he can hear the rhythmic fleshy slap of fucking just beyond. To his shame, his prick leaps in his pants, but he's no more capable of turning away than he'd be of lifting Mjölnir should she ever change her mind about him.

What he sees through the keyhole makes his heart pause in his chest.

His brother lies naked on his back with his legs spread wide in the air, his black hair fanned out on the coverlet, while above him Fandral crouches, naked too, penetrating him with quick, smart thrusts. Loki's back is somewhat arched, and each thrust jars a hot moan from his mouth and pushes him a bit more toward the edge of the bed. With one hand, he cups his balls and his rigid cock to protect them from the snap of Fandral's hips, and his other hand is laced with Fandral's on the coverlet. Fandral's arms bulge with the effort of holding his body aloft as he rolls his hips to and fro, his unseen cock plunging in and out of Loki's body—Thor's little brother's sweet young body—piercing him, taking him, spoiling him—

Thor staggers to his feet. Baffled, his pulse throbbing in his ears and his lungs empty of breath, he struggles to understand—what did he _think_ he would see? Had he assumed his brother would take the man's position? The truth is, he hadn't considered it at all. But the sight of _this_ , unadorned and raw, has split him into two Thors: the one that sees the debasement of his brother's royal flesh and feels the dishonor in his bones, and the other that wants nothing more than to be in Fandral's place, sinking his cock into Loki's tight, clasping heat, like he's been wishing he could do for years.

His face burns while the rest of him goes cold and hollow, his hands and feet like ice. Is this arousal? Anger? Fear? And if all three, which one is going to win? Of its own accord, his hand drifts toward the handle of the door, and with dread he watches it turn the latch slowly, carefully, silently, then push the door open slowly, carefully, silently as well. Then his feet carry him forward until he stands mere yards from the foot of Fandral's bed.

This is it, he supposes—his greatest act of stealth. Of course, his soft tread is not enough to fool Loki, whose head tips back so that he can meet Thor's eyes upside down, a lazy smile spreading over his face as another thrust pushes his neck into an even deeper arch. He isn't at all surprised to see Thor, and his passionate moan as Fandral fucks him deep is meant for Thor alone. It's this that Fandral finally notices, not Thor himself—he sees that Loki's attention has moved elsewhere, and lifts his strained and sweaty face to find out where it's gone. When he sees Thor, he cries out and jerks back in terror, as if Thor were a rotting corpse that had come strolling into his chamber.

Cringing against the wall with his hands over his groin, Fandral bears no resemblance to the brave companion Thor loves, which tells Thor two things—first, that Fandral knows exactly what he's done; and second, that Loki hasn't let him in on his little game. And so Fandral's sin is merely the one he shares with Thor, the sin of wanting Loki, and Thor can't in good conscience beat him bloody for that. Loki, on the other hand…while Fandral crouches in guilty resignation, too terrified to even beg for Thor's forgiveness, Loki stretches languidly where he lies, still gazing at Thor with his head tipped upside down. "Watching at keyholes again, brother?" he asks, grinning. "That's going to get you in trouble some day."

When Thor lunges forward and seizes Loki by the hair, everyone is startled—most of all Thor himself. When he growls like a mastiff and drags Loki off the bed, he wonders even as he does it _why_ he's doing it—if the words that come out of his mouth aren't just the first ones his delirious brain has seized on. All he knows is that he wants them to hurt.

"You are a _prince_ ," he shouts, twisting his hand in Loki's hair. "Your blood is my blood! And you have poisoned it by dishonoring yourself so—by letting yourself be taken like a—like a _catamite!"_

"Really?" Loki laughs. " _That's_ what you're angry about?" But his mocking smile has fallen from his face, and the new one is brittle and shaky. "Since when has my honor ever mattered to you?"

"Since it was linked to mine!" cries Thor. A few flecks of spittle land on Loki's face. "I'll drag you to Father like this—naked and dripping with another man's seed! I'll let him _whip_ this curse from your body, you vicious little lying—"

"No!" Loki claws at his wrist, any remaining playfulness replaced by terror. "Please—Thor—he already despises me, you can't—" His pleading expression becomes a snarl. "I'll kill you if you even _think_ of—"

Disgusted by his cringing, Thor shoves him down, straight to the floor. Loki hits it hard and then lies still, speechless and stunned, his hand half-raised to shield himself. 

Thor stumbles back. He feels a kind of shame that has nothing to do with his unnatural desires; he knows without a doubt that he'd been a hair's breadth from doing something worse than anything Loki has ever done to him. It's his _own_ blood that's poisoned, his own body that's cursed—to punish what primordial crime, he can't guess, but for the first time, he'd been mere seconds away from deserving it. 

"Get out of my sight," he chokes. "If I see hide or hair of you for the next fortnight, I'll tell Father after all."

Loki unfolds from his crouch, eyes full of venom, then sullenly dresses himself. Fandral too has put on his clothes, but Loki ignores him, saving his hot glare for Thor—who suddenly isn't sure why _Loki_ should be so angry, besides having been deprived of his dalliance. Already in his mind Thor has taken back the ugly words he said, knowing he didn't mean them, knowing they merely covered his own shame—but Loki doesn't know that. Loki only knows he'd planned some cruel sport at Thor's expense, and then that Thor had foiled him by being even crueler. Thor buries his face in his hands as Loki stalks out of the chamber. 

When he looks up again, he sees poor devastated Fandral, and the guilt and shame in Fandral's eyes are a mirror for his own. "My friend," says Thor weakly, "I am…we will talk. Later." He sighs. "Please forgive me."

Halfway back to his chamber, he thinks of going to Loki's, to ask for his counsel or just to see his face, then remembers why he cannot. He leans against the wall and sobs into the crook of his arm.

 

Loki, as it turns out, can't bear the tension of an unexercised threat. Thor doesn't see him, but signs of Loki's anxious wrath make their way to him anyway, and he knows its cause. They both have knowledge about the other that the other would do anything to conceal—but Loki's is the harder to prove, and his credit with the court is far worse. After all, he would have to convince everyone of Thor's illicit desire for him on the basis of a few lingering looks, whereas Thor could expose his secret simply by asking Heimdall what he saw that night in Fandral's room. (Not too many years later, Loki will master the spell to conceal himself from Heimdall, having learned his lesson.) Loki tries to regain the advantage by digging up more of Thor's damning secrets—but with one large exception, Thor doesn't _have_ secrets, and so he is spitefully triumphant. But once he concludes he is safe from the threat of exposure, he sees the depths of his cowardice. Everyone learns to fight dirty when Loki has declared war on them, but this he can't stomach, not when the real crime is his. 

Fandral comes to see him, and Thor forgives him instantly, knowing it would be the deepest hypocrisy not to.

"It was all for your benefit," says Fandral after they've thumped each other's backs a bit. "I spoke to him. He wouldn't admit it directly but he said as much."

Fandral announces this as if he expects it to comfort Thor. As if he believes Thor really _might_ be—

No. Fandral doesn't think he is jealous. He just means to assure him that this is another of Loki's tricks. That's an old story they're all comfortable with.

Thor notices Fandral's melancholy look and winces. "Oh no—you didn't—don't tell me you—"

"Loved him?" Fandral smiles, sad and self-deprecating. "I might have, a bit."

Thor can't reply. If does, his own guilty love will be written all over his face.

"You should tell him you don't plan to expose him," says Fandral just before they part. "He expects it any day. He seems to think you're incapable of mercy."

"Only because _he_ would show none if our positions were reversed," says Thor. Still, he thinks, maybe now is the time. If it's mercy Loki wants, maybe he'll agree to lay down his arms in exchange for it.

Thor finds him sitting under a tree in the orchard, sharpening his knives.

"I'm sorry I struck you," he says without preamble. "And I'm not going to tell Father what you did."

Loki draws the whetstone across the blade with a horrid screech and doesn't look up. "How positively magnanimous of you."

Thor falls to his knees so that he can look Loki in the eye. "What else can I do to make peace with you?"

"You can tell Mother and Father all about _yourself_ ," hisses Loki. "Go and describe all the filthy things you dream of doing to me, their son, your brother—how you'd love to strip me and touch me and—"

"Stop!" Thor reaches for him but clenches his hands into fists at the last moment. "I don't want any of those things!" That's true—he'd rather die than lay a lustful hand on his own brother.

Loki ignores him. "And you have the nerve to act like _I'm_ the depraved one," he goes on, lips white and trembling. "But who would believe otherwise? You're always happy to let them think the worst of me. Even if they knew the truth about you, you'd all find a way to make it my fault somehow!"

"Well, maybe you shouldn't have teased me so!" Thor finds himself shouting back. "You set out on purpose to anger me—did you think I'd simply cry into my pillow and not say a word?"

 _"I didn't think you'd be such a bloody hypocrite!"_ Tears shine in Loki's eyes. "If you were brazen enough to enjoy the sight of me, I didn't think you'd have the gall to _judge_ me for it!"

Thor's mouth hangs slack. He searches for words to defend himself, but his tongue refuses to shape such craven lies.

"You know what they say about me already," says Loki, voice shaking. "That I'm a coward—a womanish cozener, a player of tricks—they already think me less than half a man."

Despite a pang of sympathy, Thor's anger returns. "Then act more like one! None of this is my doing, Loki—I never taught you to cast aside your honor like a worthless trifle. That was _your_ choice."

Loki chews his lip. In the silence, Thor searches his face, so familiar and beloved, and wonders in despair if any amount of strife between them could ever extinguish his longing.

"Yes," says Loki bleakly. "I suppose it was. Thank you for reminding me. Now leave me alone."

 

Their conversation changes nothing; the bitterness between them remains. So when Loki abandons his poor attempts at blackmail, Thor braces himself for some new form of diabolical retribution—then grows increasingly puzzled. 

From what he can tell, Loki's new tactic makes very little sense. He starts to hear rumors of the second prince's dissolution—of outrageous behavior he doesn't even bother to conceal. The prince has dozens of lovers now, he hears. The prince prostitutes himself to foreign visitors. The prince disguised himself under a veil and a dress and let himself be used like a woman. The prince lies down with beasts while men watch—and this last one makes Thor's eyes cross with rage, though at _whom_ he isn't sure, and when he calms himself, he concludes it's probably a lie. But if there's truth behind the rumors, at what point does the truth turn to lies? Somehow, the witnesses to his brother's debauchery can never be produced, and he wonders if it's _all_ a lie Loki himself is spreading—which only leads him back to the question he began with: _why?_

Thor should refuse to be drawn into Loki's new game, but for all that's happened, he loves and desires Loki no less than before, and his cursed jealousy won't let him rest. He's also just worried, though Loki can undoubtedly look out for himself—he excels at that, after all, and it will be the rest of them who inevitably suffer when all of this is over. 

Still, Thor holds himself back until his father calls him to his private chambers. 

Odin seethes as he paces. "I've spoken to your brother," he tells Thor through his teeth. "About what all of Asgard is saying about him."

So here they are—having the conversation he once thought Loki would do anything to prevent, but now they are having by Loki's own design. He can almost feel Loki there, watching their reactions, anticipating them—foreseeing all. Sorrow and confusion fill him. "I have heard what they say," he says.

"He brings unspeakable shame on us—how can I look my councillors in the eye when they have all heard the tales of my son's degradation?—yet he treats me as a foolish old man and won't admit to anything. He's a victim of slander, he says. Not a word of it is true, he says."

"Perhaps he has slandered himself," says Thor wearily.

"If he has, that would be worse than if he _had_ lain with beasts in the city square."

Thor nods. "You want me to find out the truth."

"Yes. This undoubtedly has to do with some envy he nurses toward you, so I suspect you are the intended audience of this farce. Go and find out what he means by it. Bring it to a head—if only by hastening his plans along. If we are to be the butt of his joke, we might at least skip ahead to the punchline."

Thor knows his father loves them both, and knows (as Loki does not) how smugly proud Odin is of his second son's wit and cleverness, but at times he wishes his father would try some compassion in place of severity. "I'll see what I can find out, Father," he replies. 

As careful and discreet as he tries to be, he knows he will but follow the trail Loki has laid. What else can he do? He obtains some informants, and when they bring him news, he goes out into the city in his best disguise, to discover what kind of trouble his brother is causing tonight.

The trail leads to a mead hall, with its bright windows blazing in the dusk and its sounds of raucous merriment leaking into the street. 

Thor crouches in the dirt behind a barrel and presses his eye to a broken window pane—taking up his old position, just as Loki intends, stripped of dignity and bursting with shame and unable to tear his eyes away.

Inside the hall, beyond the broken pane, his brother strolls up and down a long table. He wears a silk damask gown, torn and askew with its belts and ties hanging loose, but fitted close to show off his slender waist and gleaming white shoulders. His face too is painted—though somewhat smeared—and his black hair tangled and wild. Thor has never seen anything like him, and his pulse quickens with lust even as his fists clench in anger. 

Loki shows no signs of shame or humiliation. Rather, he's in dangerously high spirits, just the sort of mood that would have Thor and his parents trading uneasy glances as they braced themselves for a diplomatic disaster. As Loki turns on his heel at one end of the table, he insults the men seated below in a high, ringing, slightly slurred voice, holding his skirts above his ankles, knocking plates and cups aside with a silk-slippered toe. With each crude but perfectly alliterative insult from his painted lips, the men roar their approval and snatch at his dress as he passes, occasionally receiving a foot in the face. The more Loki abuses them, the more they cheer, and Loki cackles down at them with savage delight, his face split by a skeletal grin. When he throws his head back to laugh, Thor sees the faded marks on his smooth white throat and burns with impotent fury.

Loki may be a monstrous apparition of sexual perversity, but Thor can't deny that he's in his element. He always seems happiest when set upon from all sides, and his glee when he turns his apparent weakness into victory outshines any other joy in any creature Thor knows. But that doesn't seem to be his plan. How will he get the better of these men he has whipped into an ecstasy of lecherous rage? A sick dread builds in Thor's stomach. Though he refuses to believe it, a part of him knows what is coming. 

At last, Loki snarls in the face of a big, red-cheeked warrior, then pulls his beard and plants a foot on his shoulder—but the man gets ahold of Loki's leg before Loki can shove him off the bench. Loki fights him, still smiling that crazy, savage smile, until two other men catch him by the waist and drag him down to his knees. One rips the dress off his shoulders and bares his chest, while another shoves him forward, into the lap of the man whose beard he had pulled. 

Thor's blood boils as Loki's head is forced down for a kiss, rough and sloppy, while his skirts are shoved up to his waist. He's naked underneath. Thor can't see exactly where the man's hands go, but he can guess. Loki gasps for air when he's released from the kiss, his smile wiped away and his lip paint smeared, but another man kisses him before he can catch his breath, and a third sucks livid marks across his bare neck and chest. Then, together, the men tip him back onto the table. Once Loki is pinned, the rest of the room surges forward, and Loki disappears behind their thrusting bodies. 

Thor has been watching as if spellbound. Now he springs to his feet and bursts through the door with a howl of rage. He is ready to kill every man there, but they barely notice him as he approaches, the hoots and cries of their cruel joy drowning out even his thunderous voice. Only Loki, who has lifted his head from the table, sees him coming. 

Loki's eyes widen and his face twists with fury. "No!" he mouths, shaking his head with a vehemence that stops Thor in his tracks. Does he _want_ this to happen? His brother, he realizes, has gone mad, and that means there is only one thing to do. He seizes the hilt of his sword and advances on the men. Now Loki's eyes plead with him, and at the frantic shaking of his head, Thor pauses again—struck by the senseless thought that it is _him_ Loki fears, _him_ who is about to violate his brother's body. 

He is caught in a web, he knows this clearly, though he can't see the threads. Which will be worse—to ignore Loki's pleas and incur his wrath, or to stand back and let this happen? Is _this_ Loki's revenge—to force him to watch this unspeakable scene? Has Loki designed this fate for him?

Does he even need to ask?

An invisible force tugs on his limbs, followed by the chilly breath of magic on his skin, and he watches his hand re-sheath his sword. Loki has decided for him, then. He struggles in his magical bonds, but his arms and legs are hopelessly pinned, and when he looks down again, he gasps at the sight of—nothing. Loki has made him invisible too.

He's been stripped of his choice; this will happen, and he will watch. As this fact sinks in, a cold thrill steals through his guts. How many times has he been in this exact place—hidden, helpless, filled with pitiful longing and able only to watch as someone else takes their fill of his brother? If Loki is punishing him for his unnatural passions, he admits it is just—and as he admits this, he consents to it, free now to enjoy his brother's body in the only way he'll ever be permitted. 

His eyes fill with tears, but he blinks them away quickly, desperate not to miss a moment of this.

The men strip the dress from Loki's body. Thor holds his breath as the sleeves are torn away, and then the bodice, and then they drag the skirts over his head and pin him naked and struggling on his back. The frantic squirming of his limbs in their grip does something fatal to Thor's sanity, but just as a howl of agony builds in his throat, Loki moans and arches his back, parting his legs to let a man's rough hand fondle him, and something even worse than insanity creeps into Thor's breast. He watches them slather Loki with oil, and then get out their cocks. One of them forces open his mouth, and Loki doesn't resist, taking the man's cock deep into his throat with an eager moan that makes the others laugh. 

They spread his legs apart and lift his knees, and Thor can see it all. While the first man fucks him, Thor watches the motions of the man's hairy arse in a kind of trance, imagining the tight grip of Loki's hole around the man's cock, so far beyond the threshold of shame or reason that he leaves his recognizable self behind. When the man pulls out, Thor watches his come dribble from Loki's stretched and glistening hole and wonders why he can't simply die right here and now. Then another man seizes Loki's legs and mounts him, and Loki writhes and squirms as though he's _enjoying_ it, as if his fondest wish is to be filled in every hole and smeared with the come of every common brute in Asgard. Maybe it is, Thor thinks in despair. 

The man fucking Loki's mouth comes with a groan and steps back to give another man a turn. As the men change places, Thor catches sight of Loki's pale, upturned face, and searches it for some expression he can read. But all he can see is Loki fighting to take a few deep breaths before another cock forces its way into his mouth. 

Eventually the men flip him onto his belly and fuck him face-down, each man having his turn, and Loki lets them, arching and moaning as they hold him still. As hours pass, Thor's soul begins to tingle and then at last goes numb. At some point, he decides—because to believe otherwise would mean madness—that Loki's pleasure is real, that this horror fills some unfathomable need in him that no amount of friendship or tenderness or assurances of love will ever touch. Loki's mind is a deep, narrow place, full of cold water and reflected stars, and Thor is a fool to love him, even if he never had a choice. So he will watch this to the end, and try to understand, and not turn away from this warped mirror of his own wicked lust.

It's well past midnight when the men begin to tire, when their drink catches up with them and they've fucked all they can. They fall asleep around the hall, stretched out on benches, slumped on their arms, in heaps on the floor. At last, the bonds holding Thor disappear, and he makes his way over to where Loki lies in the middle of the table, barely conscious, his thin chest heaving, covered from head to toe in oil and effluvia and sweat.

Thor leans over him. He should hate Loki for what he's done, but instead he's overwhelmed by tenderness. He strokes Loki's wet hair from his forehead and says, "Why have you done this?"

Loki's eyes open a crack. "To show you exactly what it is you love," he murmurs. "But I can tell by looking at you that you don't quite despise me yet."

Thor's eyes flood with tears. "Does my love for you offend you that much?"

"It wouldn't if you hadn't made me bear all the shame for it."

Thor hangs his head. To protest, to force his love once more in Loki's face, would be an unforgivable crime, and so he says nothing. Loki has cut him open, hollowed him out and flayed his heart raw, leaving nothing inside but pity and admiration for his brother's savagery. Loki may be the lowest and most worthless of wretched things, but Thor knows now that honor is a lie. He slips down his brother's limp, ravished body and covers Loki's feet with kisses. Then he lays his lips on Loki's forehead, and his eyes, and then his cheeks. Loki allows it all, smiling a little, as if pleased with his victory but too destroyed by loss to take any joy in it. 

With Loki gathered in his arms, Thor rests his cheek on top of Loki's head. "Please, have mercy," he says. "I yield—you've won."

"Yes," whispers Loki, amazed. "I've won."

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> In addition to the inherent lack of consent involved in voyeurism, this story contains a scene in which a character stages his own gang rape and magically forces another character to watch. There's also tons of warrior-culture misogyny and homophobia. The underage sex, however, is between two teenagers, not between a kid and an adult.


End file.
